


The Law of Potential

by Honorable_mention



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-24 15:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30074502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honorable_mention/pseuds/Honorable_mention
Summary: Sam has met hundreds of veterans before, and he understands grief when he sees it.Sam and Steve visit Bucky’s grave pre-Winter Soldier
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Kudos: 21





	1. Morning

Steve was in battle with the coffee maker. It squirmed and whined and sent burning hot steam into his face. He sputtered and slammed the palm of his hand into the side. The machine let out a pathetic little sigh, frowned, and shut itself off.

“I think it’s mad at you,” Sam said, walking out of the bathroom and tugging the edge of his shirt down. Everyone else in the building might make fun of him for it, but nothing was going to stop him from having his two showers a day, not when he had access to all of Stark’s fancy appliances. Nothing screamed luxury like free orange-scented body wash.

“Back in my day we didn’t have all these fancy doo-dads. You just made your coffee, and it tasted like pale brown water, and it did the job of keeping you awake.”

Sam snorted. “You sound like such an old man.”

“I just don’t understand the need for all these gadgets. Stark isn’t saving any time by building them, not in the long run.” Steve has his eyes locked on the machine, as if through sheer force of will alone he could send it back seventy years.

“I think he just enjoys making them. Sort of like therapy,” Sam said as he opened one of the kitchen shelves and pulled out a cheap loaf of almost-Wonderbread. Stark had told him a million times that he could afford something better, but Sam was insistent that nothing beat the texture of bodega bread. He stuck two pieces of his hard-worn prize in the toaster, set it to the setting that would barely char the bread, and turned towards Steve’s hated coffee maker. “Can I have a hot chocolate with two shots of espresso?” The machine seemed to nod and made a contented whirring sound.

“You can talk to it?” Steve asked, bewildered.

“You can talk to everything in here.” Sam’s toast popped out and he put it on a plate. He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out some butter, his hand tempted by Natasha’s leftover borscht and Thor’s unnamed meat product. No matter how much he wanted it he knew that stealing an Avenger’s lunch was an invitation for trouble. “I thought you’d have learned that by now.” He spread his fingers, doing a pathetic version of jazz hands. “Everything speaks back.”

Steve looked at the coffee machine with trepidation, his finger bouncing against the arm he held tightly across his chest. 

“Reminiscing about gramophones and horse-drawn carriages?” Sam bit into his toast. It felt good to eat something he’d prepared himself.

Steve furrowed his brow. “Is that honestly what you think the forties were like?”

“Nah, I’m just fucking with you.” He looked over to see if he could prod a response out of Steve, but the man stood there lost in his own thoughts, teeth getting worryingly close to gnawing through his lip. “Do you want me to get you a coffee or something, Steve?”

“No, no, I can get it myself. But thank you.”

At that moment Sam’s drink popped out of the machine, oozing steam and the scent of sugar and snow days. Bruce always teased Sam about his food choices, but Sam wouldn’t give them up for the world. Somehow Stark’s hot chocolate tasted exactly like his grandmother’s recipe, though he’d never give the man the satisfaction of knowing that.

Sam watched Steve hover over the coffee machine before asking it for a regular coffee. 

“See?” Sam teased. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Speak for yourself, I was born when your grandfather was but a twinkle in his mother’s eye.” But there was a smile in there that Sam was grateful for, and when Steve got his drink they moved to the sofa. It was still early in the morning, the dewy light beginning to settle over the city. Steve stared out the window, cup to his lips.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Sam asked.

Steve took a sip of his drink, wincing for a moment at the heat before resting the cup on his leg. “I’m just thinking of home.”

“You were from around here, right?”

“Give or take a borough.”

Outside a gentle, rolling fog was beginning to set it, draping the city in quiet reflection. “It must be strange coming back here, now that everything’s different.”

“You’d be surprised,” Steve whispered. “The people are different, but they feel the same. That energy, it’s still here. The cars are faster, yes, and I’m still getting used to all the electric signs, but there’s a motion all around us. It’s like I’m back in my own time, yet also somewhere I’ve never been before.”

Sam didn’t know how to respond at first, so he ate another bite of toast and sipped his hot chocolate while he tried to come up with an answer. “I don’t really understand what you mean, exactly, but I’ve heard the same thing from some of the vets I work with.”

“Really?” Sam wasn’t sure what look he saw on Steve’s face. Hope, maybe, or fear.

“Yeah. They come back home and everything feels different, yet at the same time everything’s stayed the same. Somehow the world keeps moving but they’re stuck. Stuck in routines no one else cares about, stuck in thoughts and actions they can’t control. Thoughts that bore into their brain and drain them out through the base of their skull. They tell me that being back here, stateside, it makes them realize that they’ll never be the same person they were before they fought. The world keeps moving yet they’re always static.”

Steve took a moment to process his words, and Sam could almost see his mind working and dancing across his tongue. “I think people forget I’m a veteran, sometimes.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I’m not just some stupid symbol. I’m a man. I’ve seen people I,” he paused, “care about die.”

“Tell me about them.”

“There was this man, Bucky,” Steve said, taking a sip of coffee and watching the prowling fog outside. “It’s a ridiculous name, I know.”

Steve smiled and looked down into his coffee, the early morning light catching on his face and sending dark circles under his eyes. “But it fit him. Bucky. He was fit him.” Steve looked out into the middle distance, his final words fizzling out into the ether.

“Do you want to talk about him?” Sam asked.

Steve laughed, a hollow sound that echoed through his chest. He leaned over and pressed his hands into his eyes, his palms whitening for a moment before he threw his head back. “No, I don’t. Because he’s dead, you know, and he’d want me to move on. Right?”

Sam shrugged. “I never met him. I can’t speak for the dead.”

“You’re very helpful.”

“I’m just here if you need to talk.” Sam had seen the look on Steve’s face before, back when he used to do group sessions. All these men and women, unsure of their place in a world that liked them better in theory.

“He’s out in Brooklyn,” Steve whispered after a moment.

“What?”

“He’s buried out in Brooklyn. Near his sister. He’s not actually buried, of course, I doubt they ever found his body after,” he shook his head, “that doesn’t matter. But his headstone’s out in Brooklyn.”

Sam wasn’t sure why he said it. The words leaked out of him, and once they were in the world he couldn’t shove them back inside. “We should go visit him. Bring some flowers.” He put his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “It might be good for you. Get some closure. Okay?”

Steve looked over the skyline for a minute, then nodded his head. “Okay.”

“We don’t have anything to do today, right? We could go this morning. I know a good florist near the subway station. She’s really nice, she’d help you pick out something nice. We could leave after we finish eating.”

“That sounds good,” Steve whispered.

“In that case it’s a plan. Eat up,” Sam said, polishing off the last of the toast and bringing the plate to the sink. He looked over at Steve when he placed it down. The sun was still rising and Steve held the mug in his hand. If Sam didn’t know better he would swear that hand was shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think I’ve ever written much with Sam before, but I honestly feel like he’s kind of underrated as a character (although we’ll see what happens with the new show, if I can convince my friend to let me steal their Disney+ login again). 
> 
> Anyway, I hope y’all like this!! The next two chapters should both be out within a few days :))


	2. Afternoon

The florist’s shop was small, hidden between offices and apartments and stores. It was barely big enough to fit the rows of flowers that covered every wall and brushed against the ceiling, dangling across one another and coating the floor in a thin layer of pollen throughout the year. It was a maximalist’s wet dream and a neat freak’s worst nightmare.

Sam watched Steve pick over the flowers, his fingers dusting the petals and barely making contact. 

“Do you need any help picking something out?” Emily asked. She was youngish, all tight curls and freckled cheeks. Sam couldn’t remember when they met but he did know that she was always kind when he stopped by, be it for condolences or babies or bedside visits. Or, memorably, to ask for forgiveness from his mother after he crashed into her vegetable garden while figuring out his suit’s controls.

Steve shook his head at Emily’s question and continued looking, hands trailing past roses and geraniums and little yellow flowers Sam couldn’t name. There wasn’t much room to turnaround, yet Steve seemed determined to know the intricacies of each and every bud.

“You know,” Sam said, “I think there’s a whole language in flowers. Emily could help you.”

“You really that ready to leave?” Steve laughed, though his eyes were tense.

“I just don’t think Emily wants you standing around, scaring off the paying customers,” Sam said. It could have been sneering but they knew each other well enough for it to only be a light jab.

Steve stopped in front of a bouquet of pink and white carnations. “How much for these?” He picked them up and held them lightly in his hand. “On second thought don’t tell me. We’ll just put it on Stark’s card.”

Emily shot Sam a questioning look. “Oh, it’s fine,” he said, pulling the aforementioned card out of his wallet. In theory he had permission to use it, though in reality Clint had given it to him. The chances Stark knew it was gone were slim to none. “The man’s always telling us to treat ourselves, he’s very giving.”

“So very giving,” Steve seconded as they paid and walked out the door.

It would have fit the mood if it were drizzling beneath a coat of sun. The weight between Sam and Steve was heavy, somewhere between joking and sobbing. 

But instead the sky was clear and warm, the blanket of fog having long ago scurried into the side streets. People milled, the wind whipping stray pieces of paper into their hair and onto the bottom of their shoes, where it stayed before it was finally scrapped onto the pavement. Pigeons cooed and dogs whined and somewhere a baby cried. A taxi screamed along the road beside Sam, sending a wave of hot air over his arms, and people pulled their hats down as they checked their watches and realized they were running late. For a pair of celebrities Sam and Steve did a remarkable job of blending into the crowd.

The air was beginning to warm up by the time they made it to the subway station, the heat of millions of bodies baking under the sun bouncing off the asphalt and digging under their clothes. But it was cool as they climbed down the stairs, the graffiti and mild smell of mildew and urine more comforting than it had any right to be.

Sam paid for both their tickets after Steve couldn’t understand the machine and they made their way to the edge of the platform.

There’s some human impulse that makes you want to peer your neck over the yellow line above the tracks and Sam was no exception.

An arm held him back. “Hey, that’s not safe,” Steve said.

“I’m not gonna fall on the third rail, relax,” Sam laughed. “You’re such a rule-follower.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Sure.”

With a screech and a whip of air the train pulled into the station. A moment later the doors beeped open and they stepped inside. They’d already walked to the end of the platform so the train was relatively empty when they got on. Standing room only, yes, but at least there was space to breath.

The train began to clear out as they made their way towards Brooklyn, people filtering off after each stop. By the edge of Manhattan they could get a seat wedged between a young woman reading an Agatha Christie novel and an old man talking on the phone in what Sam thought was Yiddish.

Eventually they made it to their stop, climbing the steps back into the world of the living where the heat sweated but the buildings were sparser. It was a dozen blocks to the cemetery but they didn’t say much along the way, content to take in the sights and smells of the city.

Finally they stood outside the gates of the cemetery. The place was quiet and small, tucked between a deli and a row of brownstones. 

“This block’s the only one around that still feels like home. The way it used to be,” Steve said.

“Is that a good thing?”

“I don’t know. I never would have met you back then, but at the same time I miss it.” They walked into the cemetery, past mossy tombstones and cracked cherubs.

Tucked in the back, under a flimsy tree, were two graves. James Buchanan Barnes and Harriet Madison Barnes.

“Right before my final mission I arranged for his headstone to go here. Not that there’s anything wrong with Arlington, it’s a beautiful place, but I thought he’d want to be next to Harry.” He sighed. “She was the only person who rivaled me as his closest friend.”

“What happened to her?”

“She got sick, same time as my mother,” Steve said, kicking the gravel beneath his shoe. Sam wanted to know more, to understand what was happening in his head, but decided to let it drop.

“Do you want me to give you some space?” Sam asked, cautious.

“I’ll come find you. There’s a grave in here with a bench they let you sit on, at least there was when me and Bucky used to come here. You should try to find it.”

“I’ll look for it,” Sam said, turning to leave. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Steve sit down in front of the graves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Hope y’all liked this chapter!!
> 
> I want to try my hand at some Southern Gothic stuff, so I’d really appreciate if anyone had any ideas for how I could weave the South into the MCU which is, let’s admit, pretty centered around the Northeast
> 
> Anyway, hope y’all have an awesome day :))


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